Grave Diggers
by Sarr Chasm
Summary: Set early Season 7. Clawing your way out of your own grave isn't something that's easily forgotten in a mere year... Although Buffy is strong, the mornings are still the worst. (Flashback Season 6)


Disclaimer: I own all that relates to Buffy. As a threat to you other fic writers, let this be a fair warning... I own it ALL. The lil' piece of paper I found in Joss's wallet after I mugged him last night said he was leaving it all to me so HANDS OFF!!   
  


Summary: Set early Season 7; digging yourself out of your own grave isn't something that goes away within a year and without a little therapy. Memories from beyond the darkness still plague Buffy... But it's getting better all the time. Mostly, the mornings are still the worst.   
  


Author's Note: Yeah, it's short. What's it to you? Not like you'd READ a long one anyway... Not like I have time to WRITE a long one, besides. ::sigh:: Anyone wanna lend me a little time? 

... 

No? 

::sigh:: 

Oh well, let's just pretend that feedback IS time and you can give me that. 

* * *

Waking Up And Moving On   
  


A shrill, piercing shriek violently cut through Buffy's restless sleep--extending a hand, she dutifully slayed her alarm clock. Her eyelashes fluttered and she resisted the urge to silently drift back to her cotton-clad world. Pulling back the comforter, she smiled to herself; she had been doing pretty well on the "getting up" front recently. Every morning she was up by 6:30 and so began her post-sleep routine. 

Alarm clock killage: 6:30. Face wash and detangling of rat's next AKA her hair: 6:31-6:36. Sprint into Dawn's room to prod sister awake: 6:37-638. Sprint back to own room, hunt for clean and semi-matching, presentable outfit, followed by donning of said outfit: 6;39-6:47 (record time). Dash downstairs to "make" cereal (sometimes, she even made muffins: Take container, pry top open, and place store-bought muffins on counter. Very labor intensive.) and exchange groggy morning pleasantries with Dawn: 6:48-7:00. Nag Dawn for still being in her bathrobe and eating slowly: 7:01-7:02, followed directly by "Buffy Quiet Time," a time when she piled the dishes into the sink and wiped down the Formica counter-tops, her keen Slayer hearing straining for Xander's arrival in her driveway. 

The quiet-time was the most dreaded of the morning routine. For 13 minutes, every morning, she was left to deal with the deepest recesses of her brain, the ones that were normally silent when occupied. She wished she could shy away from the images, the thoughts, the memories that were trapped in a cage of contained misery, but there was no place far enough to run. 

*Wherever you go, there you are.* Buffy thought wryly. 

After two minutes of excruciating silence (random bumps a la Dawn's spasticness excluded), she could almost hear the zookeeper rattling keys and opening that dreaded cage. Soon, the images began to set in.   
  
  
  
  
  


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Blackness. 

There were no thoughts, only blackness... Should there be thoughts? Feelings? Emotions? If there was supposed to be, they were long gone leaving only a brief, lacking respite before the panic set in. The darkness wasn't natural... There was no hazy light seeping in from a door's edge, no shades of shadowed greys... Just. Black. 

Eerie black, tangible black. The kind that stalks you in dreams and lingers behind your eyelids, waiting for that thin line to be crossed between awake and asleep, here and there, now and... When? 

Buffy lifted her hands up in front of her eyes-- Or, at least, she thought she did. It felt like she was wiggling her fingers and shaking her wrists. Maybe she was... She blinked ...Blind? 

*Wouldn't I remember if I had gone blind?* she wondered from beyond a mist of growing uncertainty. Her elbows bumped against something hard and covered with ruffled cloth. Tracing her unseen hands above and around herself, she deduced that she was enclosed in something... Something... 

That was as far as rational thought allowed her to go before survival instinct kicked it into high gear. Where was the air? Out, out-- She had to get OUT! She tried to scream, but her scratchy voiced felt muffled; stifled. Oh God, she wouldn't be able to breath; it wasn't even a thought, but an automatic response to the dank, stale oxygen. 

Trusting on -blind- faith that her hands were still attached and functional, Buffy began to madly claw at her surroundings. She cringed at the harsh sound of ripping fabric but was heartened by the fact that she had reached the "top" of her encasement. Cocking her elbow back as far as her cushioned surroundings would allow, she slammed through the thick wood with a fist. The skin around her knuckles cracked open and began to bleed-- She could smell the tangy scent. Death was her gift.. She knew the smell well. 

Then it hit her. Hard. 

Death. She smelled like Death. Buffy would never be able to escape Death-- it surrounded her in her life, her duty, her calling. It was who she was and what she did. Death. Was. Her. Gift. 

And right now, Death was her dancing partner. 

Her mad clawing at her ceiling became more frenzied and her chest rose and fell in an irregular panting pattern. Out, out, how to get out?! After what could have been seconds, hours, or years, the wood cracked through and dirt began to pour onto her face, smothering her and depriving her of what depleted air was left. Resisting the reflex to swallow, Buffy struggled to a sitting position and began her upward ascension. 

And suddenly, as if the ordeal was merely a figment of the imagination, the world opened up to her. The sky, the trees, the freshly-dewed grass... Everything was open and alive. Ignoring the random cuts and scrapes collected from her struggle, Buffy pulled herself completely out of her prison and lay wheezing on the cool ground. 

Yes, she knew that there was a tombstone to her right that spelled out her name and date of death, even had a cute little epitaph... And yes, she was aware that what she had just struggled her way out of was her grave, dug a secure six feet under... And YES! she was aware that she was in fact, not dead... 

But as Buffy's eyes welled up with tears wrested from her very soul, she just couldn't find the strength to care.   
  
  
  
  
  


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Buffy blinked at the suspicious sounding honking noise coming from her driveway. 

*Geese aren't usually -that- loud... Do we even -have- geese in Sunnydale?* she mused before it sunk into her unusually dense skull. 

"Dawn! Xander's here and YOU'RE NOT! Remember the oath about getting to classes ON TIME?!" the somewhat diminutive Slayer bellowed up the stairs with such force that belied her size. She checked her watch and sighed: 7:15. Those 13 minutes weren't the hardest part of her day anymore, like they were last year, but they were still taxing. But as Dawn tumbled down the stairs in a flurry of books and makeup to greet a grown-up looking Xander in the driveway, Buffy smiled to know that they were getting easier.   
  
  
  


END


End file.
